Le Voyage de Retour
by TheYoungTimpani
Summary: The journey back. AU. In a matter of months, everything is turned completely upside down. All that the memebers of the team want is a way to return to normal. Based on the novel Between the Bridge and the River by Craig Ferguson. Tiva. McAbby.
1. Preface

**Disclaimer: **This chapter is the preface from _Between the Bridge and the River _by Craig Ferguson. I did not write this book. I did, however, write this fanfiction. Please enjoy.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This entire story will be based on this book; however, if you have not ever read this book, don't worry. The tie-ins will be presented as quotes from the novel. This story will represent the journey of the NCIS characters from their worst moment, to a new bright future. There will be some interesting journeys that they take along the way and they will see sides of themselves that they've never seen before. I know that many people will see that no one is in this chapter and turn away, but please, stick around and read the next chapter at least. From then, a real decision might be easier to make.

* * *

**APOLOGIA**

This story is true. Of course, there are many lies there in and most of it did not happen, but it's all true.

**CONFESSION**

Is a sacred rite enhanced by allegory, exaggeration, and lies.

**TIME**

Is only linear for engineers and referees.

**SCIENCE**

The laws of physics state that given the mass-to-wingspan ratio of a bumblebee, it is impossible for the creature to fly.

But it does.


	2. The Road to God

**Disclaimer: **Once again, I do not own the book or NCIS. I did create Ethan and Kenneth and Sarah though, so I do claim them.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Thanks to Cable_Addict. (I owe you several now.) Once again, just remember, I promise that the real characters will come in soon...just remember that this is AU. My first AU to top it all off...

* * *

**9 Years Earlier**

_Their daddies weren't around to keep an eye on them. They knew that the only person watching them was God. They knew God was on their side. God saved them from their mother..._

Kenneth and Ethan Michaels lived were twin brothers and in their nine years of life, they had never met their father. They had never seen their father. Not even in pictures. All they knew about their father was that they were named after him. Kenneth Jethro and Ethan Leroy.

When they asked about their father, Sarah would tell them fantastic tales of heroism. The twins grew up with their father as a mythical being. A deity. For all they cared, their father was Hercules or Superman.

In truth, Sarah had met their father in his younger days. They were both a little out of it. He was suffering from some sort of loss. She was her normal self. They were together for one week; without warning, he was gone. She had never attempted to contact him after learning of her pregnancy. She cared even less after the twins were born.

To be fair, Sarah had a hard time living in the real world. Her head was always in the clouds and to her nothing was real. Her children were merely playthings. Because of that, her neighbor raised the boys most of the time. Sarah would come home in the wee hours of the morning still coming down from some high or teetering drunk. The neighbor would refuse to allow her to take the boys home; instead, she would take Sarah in as well.

Over the past nine years, the boys came to despise their life. They hated their mother for leaving them. They hated their neighbor for taking care of their mother. The only idol they still had was their father.

So it was their, in the neighbor's living room, that nine year old brothers Kenneth and Ethan decided that they would set out to find their father.

Finally, everyone had enough. The neighbors turned Sarah in to the police and they took Ethan and Kenneth away to the orphanage. So, at the age of nine, they became wards of the state of California.

* * *

**3 Years Ago**

_The boys had lived in a state orphanage until their teens, then they ran away together. The Lanky Crooner and Fat Rasputin in their own little road movie. The Road to God._

One day, Ethan walked in to the main room of the orphanage and found the television was tuned to the national news. Reports were on of a terrorist being brought down by a federal agent from some alphabet soup team in Washington. Ethan thought nothing of it until he heard the man's name.

Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

He jerked around and took a mental photograph of the man. That was their father. There was not a doubt about it.

They were fraternal twins. Ethan had Sarah's dark brown eyes and the mystery man's sandy hair. Kenneth had his mother's auburn hair and beautiful icy blue eyes. His looks could charm any girl into anything.

The man on the television now had gray hair, but even from a distance, Ethan recognized the eyes. Kenneth's eyes. Now he knew where he had to go. They had to go to Washington and they had to go now.

They were sixteen, barely able to drive and definitely not old enough to leave the orphanage. One day, on the bus home from school, Ethan cornered his older brother. "I know where our dad is," he spoke, looking directly into Kenneth's eyes. Kenneth looked at him is disbelief, "You've said that before." "No, Kenny, this time I know for sure," he pulled out a folded up piece of paper and showed it to Kenneth. On the paper was a picture of Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Kenneth did not even have to look twice.

"Where is he?"

"Washington, DC. He's a federal agent, Kenneth. He catches terrorists _for a living_," Ethan smiled.

"You're sure that's where he is?" Kenneth asked.

"Who's the brains of this operation, brother?" Ethan asked with a sly smirk.

"You always have been, Ethan," Kenneth admitted with a brilliant grin.

"That's right. So you just save that pretty head for something less dangerous and leave the thinking to me," Ethan said, leading Kenneth off the bus.

Kenneth chased after him, "Hey, this isn't our stop!"  
"What did I say about thinking, Kenny?" Ethan said, jerking around to face his brother.

"I know what you said, Ethan, but where are we going? Why are we at the rail yard?"

"Do you have 'bout a hundred bucks to spare for a bus ticket?" Ethan asked.

"...No..."

"We're hopping a train, Kenny. Welcome to the open road. A life of men. We're going to Washington any way that we can," Ethan smirked again, finding an eastbound train and climbing into a boxcar.

* * *

**A.N.: **So, there's my two big new characters. The story will follow three primary plot lines. This one is the first. The other two will be revealed in upcoming chapters. Please review and stick around, its only gonna get more interesting. (if nothing else)


	3. Preparation

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Between the Bridge and the River_ or _NCIS._ Sorry. I do own a copy of the book and some DVDs, but if I had Michael Weatherly _and _Craig Ferguson at my disposal, do you really think that I'd spend my time writing really weird AU fanfics?

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, here's where it gets bad. I know that after this chapter my readers (if there are any of you) will want to kill me. Please don't...because I'm gonna do some stuff later that means that what happens here_ has_ to happen. Sorry. It just does. AU, remember. My world. My rules.

* * *

The world was turned on its end. In the past year, everything had changed at NCIS. Ten months ago, Ziva had been called back to Mossad. No one had been in contact with her since; Tony was heartbroken. Three months later, they were at a high profile crime scene. As Ducky leaned over the body, a gunshot cracked th air. Before anyone had time to react, Ducky was slumped over the body. He was gone before they could get him to the hospital. Palmer had taken over as head medical examiner. Four months after that, Abby came into the squadroom in tears. Her mother, Gloria, had been diagnosed with cancer and it was becoming a dire situation. Abby was returning to Louisiana to help take care of her ailing mother. Since then, McGee had been a broken man and began to change for the worse. Three moths after that, Tony began to develop a hacking cough. After a few weeks of silent suffering, Gibbs forced him to go to a doctor. What Tony learned at the doctor was something that he kept to himself. There was no reason to worry anyone else.

He was dying.

There was an infection in his lungs.

Tony fell into a deep depression. Without Ziva, he could not think of a real reason to stay around.

_The problem with suicide is that it seems so flamboyant. It's camp. You have to be a bit of a drama queen to ever seriously consider it. Of course, George could make it look like an accident but that was inherently dishonest and he didn't want his last act on Earth to be a lie. He was very proud of how honest he was. He was glad that he had been a good man in life. He had been decent. A good egg._

One night, he sat on the couch in his living room, holding his gun. He ran his hands over the cool metal and thought about how easy it would be to make it look like the gun had gone off accidentally. He could make it look like he was cleaning it or he could make it look like murder. Tony shook those thoughts from his head, but he did not put down the gun.

Everything was going so wrong.

_He supposed he was having a midlife crisis. Yes, dying in the middle of your life could definitely be classified as a crisis._

There had to be something else he could do.

* * *

McGee sat on the floor in his kitchen. His back was against the refrigerator. Scattered on the floor were the empty bottles of the six beers he had finished off since he got home from the bar.

He was drunk and he knew it.

Everything was going wrong in McGee's life.

Ziva was gone. Ducky was dead. Tony was dark and depressed. Abby was gone.

Abby was gone.

Ever since Abby had left, McGee had not been able to think straight. All of his work had seemed so distant in his mind. He had started drinking in quantities far greater than ever before. The last manuscript he turned in had disgusted his publisher so much that they had dropped him.

His life was in shambles and all he could do was drink.

More nights than not, he would drink at the bar until last call and then come home and drink until he passed out on his kitchen floor.

Sometimes he did not even know why he still woke up in the morning.

* * *

**A.N.: **Yeah, they're all moody. I'm trying to keep sort of a emotional, noir thing going on here, so I apologize for that if you're not into that kind of thing.

I won't tell you that things get better from here, because there's a cycle of good and bad things that happen in this story. There are going to be some dark chapters (about like this one) and some lighter chapters (some humor and some romantic fluff). I hope that I get a few more reviews. (Ahem, ahem, please review.


	4. Departure

**Disclaimer: **Still don't own the rights to the book or the TV show. *sigh*

* * *

**Author's Note:** When you read this you may think that I'm blatantly ripping off the book because I keep a character in who could be changed, but it makes sense that this character stays in due to his method of appearance and his area of expertise.

* * *

_It was about this time that the late Carl Gustav Jung started working with Fraser. Jung, of course, had died in 1961, which was the year before Fraser was born, so the conditions under which they met were slightly unconventional, but as Fraser had never had any form of treatment before, he had nothing to compare it to. It seemed normal to him and was certainly much cheaper than paying a living therapist, who, chances are would be nowhere near as good as Carl._

It was on the floor of his kitchen that McGee's psychiatric treatment began; sort of.

Those nights, his subconscious was entertained with the examination of Carl Jung. Jung would appear to McGee in almost any situation. Usually in some fantasy world and in some fantastic form. On this night, Jung appeared to McGee dressed in the clothing of a working man in a Disfarmer portrait as they sat at a table outside a gate in the, still functioning, prison on Alcatraz Island.

Jung casually observed that McGee's "appointments" were becoming more and more frequent and that he should, perhaps, hope that one day a liver doctor appears rather than the psychiatrist. McGee did not say a word. He rarely did. There was something that seemed very wrong to him speaking to a dead man that only existed in his mind.

"Timothy, something is very wrong," Jung said in a Southern drawl that fit his disguise, but not his personality.

McGee hung his head in shame. Figments of his imagination even knew that he was a bad person.

He looked up at Jung with a desperate look, "What should I do?"

"Leave."

"Leave?"

"Yes, there's nothing left for you here, Timothy. You know where you need to go."

"Louisiana?"

"Not yet."

"Not yet?"

"Are you deaf?"

"No."

"Then stop repeating me. I said that you do not need to go to Louisiana yet."

"Then where should I go."

"There's a flight that goes from Washington to Orlando. It leaves at nine in the morning."

"That's where I need to go?"

"No."

"No?"

"No, but its a start."

_At the other side of the cobbled square was a magnificent Gothic cathedral. Unseen by Fraser and Jung, a man was trying, and failing, to open its large wooden doors by sticking his fingers in the giant keyholes and pulling. The man was deeply distressed, crying, his heart breaking on every exhale, tugging at the doors until his fingers started bleeding. He was so intent on his task that he noticed nothing and no one around him, He didn't even know what country he was in. This was George, who was asleep in seat 16A of Coach 13 of the 1915 Eurostar, Waterloo to Gare du Nord._

As Jung disappeared, McGee vaguely noticed a man at the prison gates. He was tearing at the door with all of his might; desperately trying to escape the walls of the unescapable Hell he was trapped in. Had McGee payed a bit more attention, he would have recognized that this man was Tony.

Tony, however, was far away from Alcatraz and far away from McGee.

Packing only a small bag, Tony showed up at the airport and looked at the list of departures; scanning for somewhere that was far away.

He signed up on the standby list for an AirFrance flight to Paris and through some miracle, got on the flight. It was the last flight out of the airport for the night; by the time McGee had his dream, Tony was somewhere over the Atlantic sleeping a fitful sleep crammed into a middle seat.

The next morning, McGee showed up at the airport and got on the standby list for the flight to Orlando, through some similar miracle, he got on the flight.

Neither of them knew why they were going, but they were leaving Washington and that was all that mattered for the moment.

* * *

**A.N.: **Now, everybody, time to sing Phil Collins! *sings* Tell everybody I'm on my way! New friends and new places to see!

No? Okay, I'll just sing by myself. So I just made up all the flights and used some serious creative freedom, so don't just show up expecting to get on a trans-Atlantic flight. That probably wouldn't work.

Since its been so long since I updated this and I'm afraid that I'll lose my train of thought, I'm trying to really pump out the chapters. Please enjoy and review!


	5. The Road to God Part Two

**Disclaimer: **Nobody really reads these things anyways. I could tell people that I own Craig Ferguson, NCIS, and a 32-foot-long stegosaurus named Kurtis. Or maybe I shouldn't...nah.

* * *

**A.N.:** Sooo....I've got something a little confusing going on in my world right now. It's not me personally, but its some people very close to me and I'm a bit out of it. Please, be kind.

* * *

**Three Years Ago**

_They headed off into the woods with no idea of where they were going but with a certain faith that they would be provided for._

The train slowed to a crawl somewhere in the midst of the desert in the middle of the night. Ethan stood at the door to the boxcar and looked out across the barren landscape; the full moon gave the barren wasteland an almost extraterrestrial appearance. He looked out and then turned back to his brother who was sleeping soundly in a dark corner of the car. Kenneth had gotten too comfortable. It was time to move again. Ethan walked over to his brother and shook him awake.

"Are we there?" Kenneth grumbled drowsily.

"We're at our stop," Ethan stated.

Kenneth looked around, obviously confused, and said, "The train's still moving, Ethan."

"We're almost to Arizona. When we get to the next stop, they're gonna check the train. We've gotta get out of here," Ethan lied.

"Ethan, if we're almost to Arizona then we're in the-"

"Yeah, Mojave Desert, I know. But if they find us, we're going to jail. The train's movin' slow; we can jump."

"Jump?" Kenneth asked, scrambling to his feet.

"Yeah, jump," Ethan walked over and braced himself against the door.

Kenneth stood a bit back and just looked at the hard desert floor that was creeping past the train.

"Scared?" Ethan asked, turning to his brother.

Kenneth shook his head, "Nah."

Ethan reached out and took his brother's hand and gave a reassuring smile, "Let's do this."

Kenneth nodded.

Then they jumped.

The next thing Ethan remembered was a man pouring cold water on his face. He jumped to his feet and looked around to see what was going on. He saw Kenneth still lying on the ground beside him. Someone was crouched over his brother with a bottle in his hands. Before Ethan could say anything, the person repeated his awakening tactics on his brother. Kenneth sat up abruptly, sputtering the water out of his mouth.

The man stood up and put the bottle in a pocket and brushed his hands on his stomach. He appeared to be in his late 60's or early 70's and was dressed in a faded plaid shirt under well worn denim overalls. His face was the color of the sand and marred with deep wrinkles. His eyes were dark and squinty. On the top of his head was a cap delicately perched on his wispy white hair.

He spoke to them with a gravelly voice, "Better get youen's cleaned up, I reckon." Then he hobbled away. Kenneth looked to his brother.

Ethan looked around. They were in the middle of a ghost town and the railroad was nowhere in sight. The man was walking up to the best looking house in town, which was not saying much at all.

It was an old whitewashed shack with a wide porch that was collapsing in several places.

He walked right up to the screen front door and knocked. A younger man, perhaps in his 30's or 40's, opened the door.

The two exchanged some words before the old man pointed at the boys and motioned for them to come up on the porch. Without thought, they did so.

The younger man looked out of place in this wasteland. His face was light and he had almost black hair fixed in a manner not unlike a pompadour. He was dressed in a white collared shirt with dark blue slacks. He looked clean and professional.

"Where did you boys come from?" the younger man asked in an accentless voice.

"San Diego," Ethan said, "Where are we?"

"Joshua," the man stated.

"Who are you?" Ethan asked.

"Reverend Rolf Peterson, pastor of the church here in town."

"And you?" Ethan asked the old man.

"That's Lonnie Thomas; he's the caretaker," Reverend Peterson answered for the old man.

"Are you guys it? Is this everyone in town?"

"My wife, Flora, lives here and people come and go. Otherwise, yes, we are all of the town."

"Then what are all the other buildings for?" Ethan motioned around at the dozen or so buildings lining what could loosely be called a street.

"At one time, Joshua was home to a band of bandits. It was a wealthy city and had around fifty residents. After the cities along the coast began to grow and the wild west began to calm down, everyone left Joshua," the reverend explained.

"So why are you here?"

"Lonnie's family has been here for generations. He's a descendant of the bandits."

"And you?"

"Some one had to pastor the church."

Silently, Ethan wondered what use a church was to one person, but he decided to not make that argument.

"Where are you boys going?" Reverend Peterson asked.

"W-" Kenneth began before Ethan took over. "Wherever the Lord takes us," he replied with an angelic smile.

This answer seemed to satisfy the reverend and he led them into his house.

"You boys can stay here until the Lord calls you to leave," he said with a small smile.

Kenneth looked around at the small room they were standing in.

Ethan looked at the reverend and bowed his head, "God bless you, Reverend."

Reverend Peterson began to work at sitting up two cots for the boys to sleep on and finding clothing for them to change into. He told them where the shower was and excused himself to go study his sermon notes.

Kenneth sat down on his cot and watched his brother, "Ethan, what are we doing here? I thought we were going to Washington."

"We'll never make it there on our own, Kenny," Ethan stated as he paced back and forth across the worn rug in the middle of the room.

"Why did you tell him what you told him?" Kenneth asked quietly.

Ethan stopped and looked at his brother. Kenneth looked troubled by something and was looking at the floor.

"What do you mean?"

"You told him that we were going 'wherever the Lord takes us'. That's a lie, Ethan. Why did you lie to them?"

"Oh, Ken," Ethan knelt down beside his brother, "Sometimes you have to lie to get what you need."

"It doesn't feel right," Kenneth avoided Ethan's eyes.

"Is it right that our Dad left us?"

"...No."

"Is it right that Mom went crazy?"

"...Well...no."

"Is it right that they took us to an orphanage?"

"...I...I don't...no."

"Things aren't black and white, Ken. Sometimes you have to do a little wrong to make a big right, okay?"

"...I guess."

"Trust me on this, Kenny. I'll always take care of you," Ethan clapped his brother on the shoulder.

Kenneth finally made eye contact with Ethan and he smiled, "You always have."

* * *

**A.N.: **Okay, so my advice to all of you readers is to always think through your decisions and to be safe and careful in everything that you do. Please make good decisions. Yes, this does have to do with the dilemma that my friends are facing. My emotions are torn, but I think I've calmed down quite a bit. Thanks to **Cable_Addict **and **Vamp** (I know there are some numbers that come after your name, but for the life of me I can't remember them, but you know who you are). You guys listened to me when I was at my most frustrated point; I owe you guys big.

Lemme see, what else?...Okay, I've never been to Southern California (I go to L.A. in a week though, whoot!) so I just made everything up. I don't think there is a town called Joshua on the Arizona border...as I just made it up...

Now, last, but not least, I was watching The Weather Channel today (I got bored) and started thinking...Mike Bettes is quite good looking. Anyone else think so? No? Yes? Yeah, I know, I'm weird.


	6. Altitude Attitude

**Disclaimer: **I don't own NCIS or _Between the Bridge and the River_, but if you own a ton of sparklers, I can teach you something awesome to do with them.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This is a short one, but I'm posting it with the chapter after it so maybe that will make it cooler. Okay, I had completely forgotten that I had written this chapter. Bad right? There is a naughty word in this one and some people think of it as an uber-naughty word. (I'll give you a clue: It starts with an 'f') so, there's your warning.

* * *

McGee ducked down into his airplane seat and fell asleep. Soon he was having awful dreams. Dreams he never had when he was sober. Dreams that made him wish he could be drunk, just so it would make sense.

_Fraser was drinking mint tea in Tangier with a giant, hook-nosed Semitic carpet salesman who had skin the exact tone and consistency of Fraser's old schoolbag. The Arab had the unexpected name of Davy. Davy was explaining to Fraser that he was a Bedouin who spent half the year in the Sahara with his family and half the year in Tangier in his uncle's carpet store selling handmade rugs to American tourists. He said business had been very bad since the whole jihad thing and that he thought fundamentalism was the scourge of decent people who were trying to live a good life and make an honest living. Fraser was surprised to find that Davy saw no difference between Christian fundamentalism and Islamic fundamentalism except that Christians seemed to be rather more effective at killing large groups of people. Fraser explained that the Christians weren't killing anyone Davy asked who dropped the bombs on Iraq. Fraser explained it was the Coalition, Davy asked who the Coalition was, Fraser said it was a group of Western democracies, Davy asked who ran the democracies, Fraser said the governments, Davy asked who ran the governments and Fraser said the people. Davy asked what people and Fraser shut up and drank his tea._

McGee dreamed that he was sitting on top of a temple in ancient Israel. He watched the city of Jerusalem rise from the sand. He saw the great kings; Saul, David, and Solomon. He saw the great temples and synagogues and as time went on the cathedrals and mosques. He watched the crusaders fall at the hands of the emperor Saladin. Then he saw the modern nation rise. Great glass skyscrapers rose up from the ground and stood for as far as he could see. Then an explosion rocked the city. People shouted for help in Hebrew and ambulances rushed to the scene. From where he sat, he could see Ziva among the Israeli military officers patrolling the streets following the blast. He saw a team of Israeli soldiers swiftly move into and out of a building. Suddenly another blast rocked the city. Cries in Arabic pierced the night and ambulances came, not quite as fast, to the rescue. A militia formed and stormed the Israelis. From his perch, McGee watched Ari Haswari march in on the front lines against the Israelis. He watched as men and women were picked off like targets in a shooting gallery. Then he saw Ari come face to face with Ziva. At first, both had guns drawn and pointed at one another; then they froze. They studied each other, but never lowered their weapons. Then a white flash split the sky and McGee fell from the minaret. When he landed, a man picked him up. He looked around and found himself back in ancient Israel; the man, however, was dressed in cargo shorts and a striped polo shirt. He appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent and when he spoke there was no mistaking it. He told McGee that his name was Steve and that he was the son of a Palestinian man and an Jewish Israeli woman and that they had left him on the steps of a Catholic church when he was a baby. He said that he could understand the conflict in the state because he felt the conflict within himself. He had ties to three different religions, three different ethnic groups, and three different viewpoints. He told McGee that things would never get better until the nation found a perfect balance, just as he had to learn to balance his identities.

He was named Steven after a saint, but he had never really learned what the saint was of and that it didn't matter anyways because until he had the balance, he didn't need to over-learn any one religion.

Then he asked about McGee's balance and McGee reflected for a moment and realized that he had not balance. When Abby left, his life spiraled out of control without anything to balance out his workaholic tenancies. Just before he was going to tell this to Steve, he woke up.

He felt his seat lurch beneath him and he realized what had woken him.

_He prayed from the pit of his soul, from the core of his being, he prayed. Muttering the words to the airtight Plexiglas porthole, his hermetically sealed, high-altitude confessional. "God please help me, God please help me. I know I've been bad, I've been wicked and evil and wrong and bad and please help me God. I promise with all my heart to be good. I promise to be good. Please get me out of this and I'll do your work. I'll do whatever you want. I'll change please stop this please stop it please please please please..." He continued to mutter the word please quietly as the turbulence threw the plane around the sky. It was part of Fraser's arrogance that he thought the turbulence affecting a plane carrying two hundred people was actually put there by a Supreme Being to directly threaten him. The God of Fraser's understanding, at this point of his journey, would bring down a planeload of innocent people just because Fraser liked to get drunk and fuck. Fraser's concept of Gos was still really that of his childhood. That God was a bad-tempered sociopath who you could placate with sycophancy and ritual. This would change later._

Turbulence shookthe plane and McGee held the armrests in a death grip. His knuckles were white and his teeth were gritted.

He had never been afraid of flying before, but he had never flown in his newly fragile state. He was terrified. His entire body shook and he held back sobs. He knew that he was going to die. He didn't know why he was on this flight or where he was going. All he was going to do was cause more problems now. He was going to die right here and it was because of all that he had done. He had given up his life and now his life was giving up him. The world was killing him because it, like any other organism, had to clean itself of any harmful toxins; right now, McGee was a toxin and the world was ready to spit him out.

There was no reason for him to go on living; if the world wanted to take him now, he was going down without a fight.

Then, as he closed his eyes, he saw Jung and he whispered, "Not yet."

McGee's eyes flew open and his hands flew to his face. He was covered in sweat, but his skin was cold and clammy.

He looked around the plane and saw people going out life as normal. Some people were reading, some were sleeping, some were chatting with others, some were typing on laptops or PDAs. No one seemed worried about what McGee felt was their impeding doom. Then he thought that perhaps, he really didn't need to worry.

He scrunched his eyes tight and saw Jung who once again told McGee, "Not yet."

When McGee opened his eyes, the turbulence had passed. He sat back into his chair and let out a deep breath that he had been holding for quite some time now.

Everything was alright for now; after the plane landed would be a completely different issue. He still had no idea where he was supposed to go, but at least now he felt confident that he would get there.

* * *

**A.N.: **Yeah, weird, I know. Just remember that McGee is very tormented right now and he doesn't know why, so until he's back on the straight and narrow, strange things will happen to him...maybe even after he gets back on the straight and narrow...


	7. Femme Fatale

**Disclaimer: **I don't own NCIS or _Between the Bridge and the River_, sorry if you guys were hoping for a Michael Weatherly as this year's birthday present from me.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Okay, I know I'm bringing back someone who many Tiva shippers never want to see again, but I promise: they're back in a totally Tiva enducing way. Also, all the French in here, I just got off a translator-thingy so if its wrong, don't blame me, I'm just the victim of circumstances. There aren't translations at the end because they're all either guessable or explained later.

* * *

_**Ten Months Earlier**_

The plane touched down at Ben-Gurion Airport. Ziva stepped off the plane and took a deep breath. This time it was permanent. She might as well get used to being back, because this is where she was staying.

After passing through customs, she found someone waiting for her by the door.

"Shalom, Ziva, it has been too long," Michael Rivkin said smoothly.

"Shalom, Michael. That is a matter of opinion; yours, not mine," she replied briskly, following him out to the parking lot.

As they got into the car, he looked over at her, "Ziva, I know this is not what you wanted. I know that life is much better for you in America...at least now that you've adjusted to that lifestyle. I know that you do not want to pick up your weapons and be an assassin again, but you must if you intend to live a week back in the operations of Mossad."

"I am aware of that," she said, not looking him in the eye.

"I know you are not happy to be here. You do not like being a killer-"

"I do not mind killing...when it is justified. I just believe that some of our targets are becoming less motivated by the good of our nation, and more motivated by the greed of my father," she stated.

"I will not deny that," Michael smiled.

"I do not mind Israel, it is just that I only ever see the dark side. I go all over the world, but all I ever see is evil. There are too many people dying today, Michael. We should not constantly be reminded of that," she said, watching the city blur past her window.

"I agree with you on that, Ziva. And you can rest assured that as long as you are with me, you will never be among the dying," Michael told her.

_They celebrated the mundane in the way only the French and Italians truly can. Each meal was a delight, a walk in the park was a work of art, sitting in a café was a memorable experience. They truly lived and were blessed with unlimited happiness, which of course, is limited._

For the next several months, Ziva and Michael worked together on mission after mission; they grew very close and both began to feel that they were in love.

Kill after kill, they would work flawlessly as a team; every night they would both lie awake in shock at the death that they had dealt.

This darkness caused them to see the brevity of life. They understood that each moment was one to cherish. Whenever they were not on a mission, they would take time to be together just as a couple. They enjoyed this time like they had enjoyed few things before.

Then came the next mission.

* * *

_**Eight Months Later**_

Ziva and Michael were sent to work a high risk mission to infiltrate a sleeper cell operating out of a suburb of Paris, France. They found a small apartment that they made their headquarters and they proceeded to go about the mission.

Everything was going well; they infiltrated the cell and were working their way in deep, to find who the leader was. Then the time came.

They had been scheduled to have dinner with the cell head that evening. Just as they left their apartment building, a long black car pulled up beside them. Three men from the cell exited followed by an older man: the head of the cell. The group led them into an ally beside the building.

"Its over," the head told them. They heard the sound of two guns cocking.

"What do you mean?" Michael asked, trying to play it cool. He should not be this nervous, but he is not worried for his own life; he is worried for Ziva.

"We know who you are."

The only man, other than the cell leader, not holding a gun handed him some papers. The cell leader unfolded the papers and handed them to Michael.

"Mossad officers Michael Rivkin and Ziva David. You're quite the team. Taking down terror cells from Jakarta to Dublin. Bet you thought this one would be no different," he looked at them then continued, "Well, that's where you'd be wrong."

The two men pointed their guns at Ziva and Michael, but the head put his hands up and said, "No, I plan to take care of these two myself." He then pulled out a gun of his own and pointed it at the pair.

He moved the barrel between the pair, "Who do I kill first?"

They began to form escape plans in their mind, but it seemed pointless. Michael turned to Ziva and looked her in the eyes, "Ziva, I love you and will be there for you whenever you need me."

"Michael, do not say things so final," she pleaded with tears in the corners of her eyes.

"Since lover-boy is prepared to die, he shall go first," the leader declared.

Before Ziva could react, the man pulled the trigger and Michael slumped to the ground. A bullet had pierced a hole right between his eyes.

"No!" Ziva shouted, jumping forward.

She grabbed the man's gun and before they could react, she shot his three henchmen. It would have been too easy to kill the leader too, but she wanted him to suffer the way that she was.

Quickly, she kicked him in the stomach then grabbed his arm and slung him into the wall. He slumped down, a bleeding mess. She stood over him with his own gun in her hands. She cocked the weapon and looked at him with the cold eyes of the assassin she had once been.

"No...please...don't..." he begged softly.

"Rot in hell," she growled, then she pulled the trigger and shot him in the same spot that he had shot her lover.

She took a deep breath and dropped the gun. Then she fell to Michael's side and held him. His body was quickly losing heat. She cried over his dead body for almost an hour before she called in their back-up team.

The back-up team was able to take out the rest of the cell. After they finished, Michael's body was taken back to Tel Aviv for a big military ceremony; Ziva refused to come.

She stayed in Paris and lived in their little apartment headquarters.

The night of Michael's funeral, Ziva thought back to all of her previous lovers. All of the real ones had ended up dying. That couldn't be normal, she told herself. Normal people don't attract so many people just before they die.

She fell asleep on the couch that night.

"_Look," explained Christ, "I wanted to let you know, to perhaps lighten your load a little, that you are extremely important in God's plan." _

"_So He has a plan then?"_

"_Oh, yes, and your part in it is- you are His consolation to those about to fall, your beauty, charm, and sex are a salve for the pain of passing. Claudette Bruchard is God's Gift to dying men."_

"_I don't want to be that."_

"_We all have our crosses to bear," said Jesus sadly._

That night, Ziva had an insane dream. In her dream, she stood at some sort of tall stone gate. Man by man, each of her dead lovers walked past and kissed her and said 'I love you'. Finally, Michael walked up. She grabbed his arm, "Michael, what's going on?"

"You cannot tell by now?" he asked.

She shook her head.

"You see all these dying men that were your lover when they drew their last breath and it is not obvious?" he asked incredulously.

"No, what is this?"

"Ziva, you are a gift to dying men. Your purpose in living is that these men are loved when they die. You are an angel on earth, Ziva. As one of the dead, I can say with absolute certainty that dying loved is the best way to go."

"That is the only way you have gone, Michael."

He smiled, "This is true; but still, Ziva, you are so important to these men."

"This is an awful purpose," she said, "Every time I fall in love, the man will die! How am I supposed to live knowing this? How will I date? And suppose one lasts a bit longer than normal, how could I go about raising a child knowing that I knew their father was dying?"

"I cannot answer these questions, Ziva. All I can tell you is that you are a comfort to the immortal soul. The last thing I remember is not the terrorist who killed me, but your love."

She stepped back and studied him for a while.

"What?" he finally asked.

"Shouldn't you be going through the gate with the others?" she asked.

"Not yet. I don't get to leave until you find someone new," he told her.

"How long will that be?"

"You never know," he replied with a smirk.

* * *

_**Present**_

The plane landed at Charles De Gaulle and it was almost noon. Tony rubbed his eyes and looked down at his watch. It was almost lunchtime here, but he was ready for breakfast. To be fair, it was only 0530 by DC time.

After passing through customs and exchanging his money. He stepped outside to street level and hailed a cab. Only after he climbed in did he remember that he only had a basic knowledge of the French language and had never been to Paris before so he didn't know anything other than the obvious tourist stuff.

"Bonjour," the cabbie said as Tony sat down.

"Er...bonjour," Tony shut the door.

"Où à, monsieur?" the cabbie asked.

"Uhh...," Tony thought back on his basic knowledge of the French language...he remembered other languages in French. Maybe he could suggest something he knew better, "Espagnol?"

"Non," the man replied.

"Italien?" Tony tried again.

"Non, désolé."

"Anglais?" Tony tried desperately.

"I speak some English," the man stumbled.

"Thank god! Why didn't I ask that in the first place?" Tony sighed.

"Where to, sir?" the man repeated in English.

"I'm looking for some food, but somewhere that's not full of tourists. Just take me somewhere like that," Tony said, hoping that it would work out well.

"Oui," the driver nodded, pulling away from the airport and driving into the city.

The cab stopped outside a small café that looked perfect. Tony paid the driver and gave him a sizable tip; after all, he had no need for the money, he planned on dying soon.

He walked over to a table on the patio and sat down. A young woman quickly walked over to take his order.

"_Excuse me, do you have a light?" he asked._

_She saw the desire in his eyes as he looked at her. "Stay away from me, I am Death," she told him in perfect English._

_George thought for a moment. "Then I'd expect you'd be more than happy to help me light a cigarette, Oh Dark One."_

"_I mean it," she snapped._

"_So do I," said George. "If you are Death you could take me now and save me a lot of pain." George was rapidly losing his ability to give a crap what anyone thought of him, even beautiful women._

_Claudette felt terribly sorry for him because she sensed his sincerity and wildness, which had aroused her interest, and therefore she knew that his days were numbered. She lit his cigarette, allowing her hand to touch his._

"Qu'est-ce qui vous aimer?" the waitress asked, looking at Tony.

"Damn, why didn't I learn French," Tony cursed under his breath, "Anglais?" he tried despeately.

The woman shook her head.

A woman tapped the waitress and said,"Il prendra un café avec la crème et le sucre supplémentaire avec un sandwich au jambon."

The waitress paused for a second and looked at Tony. He held up his hands, "I don't speak French." Then the waitress walked off.

A few minutes later the woman returned with a cup of coffee, extra cream and sugar, and a ham sandwich. Tony looked it all over. It was just what he wanted.

"How did this happen?" Tony asked the waitress, pointing at his plate.

The girl shrugged and pointed toward the woman who had spoken to her after Tony gave up.

Tony looked over at the woman. She was sitting alone. Her long, dark hair was up in a ponytail. She was wearing a tan shirt, black pants, and tan boots. He cautiously reached over and tapped her shoulder.

She didn't look at him, but merely replied, "Hmm?" as she sipped tea from her cup.

"I don't know if you speak English or not, but I want you to know that was amazing. You knew exactly what I wanted and you ordered it for me, that was like magic. I don't know how you did it, but thank you," he said, then turned back to his food.

The woman turned to look at him, he did not look up.

"You think I could know you as long as I do and not know what you would have for lunch?" a familiar voice taunted.

He scrunched his eyes shut. He recognized that voice, but it was impossible. What are the odds that she would be here? It was impossible.

"Tony," the woman said, reaching over and lifting his jaw with her finger, "It has been too long."

"That it has, Ziva," he sighed.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I'm on vacation," he replied, there was no need to worry her with the truth.

"Oh, well, then...have a good one," she said as she stood to leave.

"No, wait!" he called, grabbing her arm. She froze and looked at him.

"I could really use some help around here," he said, "I've never been to Paris before and, in case you didn't notice, I don't speak French."

She looked down at him; he looked heartbroken.

"Fine," she sighed, falling into a chair at his table, "I will stay."

They sat there for a while, Tony finished eating.

Mostly, they looked down at the table. Any time they looked at each other, they got feelings that they should not have. If they made eyes contact, it was like fire. The tension between the two returned and Tony began to question his motive for holding her back. He knew that dying men cannot- should not- take risks like falling in love. No, this was a terrible time to be thinking about being in love.

He reached for her hand on the table, but she jerked it away. He tried to look at her eyes, but she looked the opposite direction. So he closed his eyes and sighed, "We should talk."

"A lot has happened in these ten months," she stated.

"You only know the half of it," he replied.

"As do you," she said with a smirk.

"You know, before you left, I almost told you that I loved you," he said, looking at his hands.

"You did?" her head snapped up.

"Yeah," he said, unsure of what to say next, "I still do."

"No," she said angrily, "No, you cannot love me. I cannot love you."

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"I...just...I can't."

"Are you seeing someone? Is that it? Is he good to you, Ziva?" he asked.

"I am not seeing anyone else."

"Then why can't you love me?" he demanded again.

"You wouldn't understand," she sighed.

"Try me," he said, grabbing her hands.

"No, Tony..."

"You, know, Ziva, it wouldn't kill you to love me," he said.

"No, but it might kill you."

"Well, that's a chance I'm willing to take," he replied, leaning over the table to kiss her.

* * *

**A.N.: **I'll be perfectly honest, I was planning this chapter in my head before I even started writing this fic. I know its a longer chapter, but honestly, do you think it was well written? Please review.


	8. Arrival

**Disclaimer: **Don't own NCIS...that should be obvious by now.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Very, very, very, very, short chapter ahead. Just had to get McGee situated in his hotel room.

* * *

The plane touched down at Orlando and McGee sent up a silent prayer of thanks. He had never been so happy to get off a plane in his entire life.

He grabbed his luggage and made his way down to the rental car desk. The line, being noon in Orlando in the middle of the summer, was incredibly long; but it was not like McGee was in any sort of hurry so he took his place at the end of the queue.

When he finally reached the front of the line, he spoke with a man who, eventually, handed him the keys to a Volkswagen Beetle. It wasn't his first choice, but it was the best he could get on such short notice. He found the car in the rental lot. It was a navy blue car and he squeezed his eyes tight when he thought of what Tony would say if he say McGee driving it.

Luckily, he had thought it through enough to book a hotel room last night. Granted, that was not much better than just showing up, but it still worked.

_A cheap hotel room gives the seedy, sleazy vibe that many, especially rich, deviants enjoy, but Fraser personally preferred expensive hotels. To Fraser an expensive hotel room was a clean plate. A chance to start again, and God knows he wanted that more than anything._

He made his way out to the Caribe Royal resort and walked into the elaborate lobby. He checked in and received his room key and proceeded to walk to the second tower.

He walked past the pool and heard the sound of children laughing as they played with their parents. Everyone here was so happy. McGee just hoped that he could find some way to be happy here, too.

He made his way up to the third floor and found his room was just off the elevator. He slid his cardkey in to the lock on room 2323 and made his way in.

The room was wonderful. Big flatscreen TV on the wall; couch on the otherside; a nice desk; mini-fridge; the beds were soft; and there was a big window overlooking the pool surrounded by palm trees.

Perhaps things were going to get better, McGee thought as he looked out over the crowded pool and into the light blue Floridian sky.

* * *

**A.N.: **I went to Florida recently to the National Beta Convention and our teachers rented a navy blue VW bug and we stayed in the Caribe Royal, so that's where all that came from. I think I may have McGee visit some of my other favorite Floridian destinations while he's there...


	9. Satori

**Disclaimer: **Unless something happens in just a few minutes, I will not (as of posting this fic) own NCIS or Between the Bridge and the River.

* * *

**Author's Note: **The chapter title means, "Sudden Awareness". Also, my first journey into the territory of "big, screaming, cursing fit" sooooooo...yeah. There's some language (Read: Double dropping of the F-Bomb)...I'm just sayin'.

* * *

_The universe is very, very big. _

_It also loves a paradox. For example, it has some extremely strict rules._

_Rule number one: Nothing lasts forever. Not you or your family or your house or your planet or the sun. It is an absolute rule. Therefore when someone says that their love will never die, it means that their love is not real, for everything that is real dies._

_Rule number two: Everything lasts forever. For example, George was made up of billions of atoms, some of which had, at various times, been parts of, among other things, a Tyrannosaurus rex, a red felt hat, and some porridge. In a staggering coincidence, Claudette had a few atoms of that same bowl of porridge in her system. It had been served to Alexander the Great during his campaign in Afghanistan. He loved porridge. Perhaps that was the key to the attraction between George and Claudette – their shared porridge molecules. It makes as much sense as anything else that goes on between men and women._

As the kiss broke apart, Ziva looked at Tony with rage burning behind her eyes.

"Why did you do that?!" she demanded.

"What? Like you didn't want it?!" he shouted back.

"You know that I did, but I can't!" she said, fighting back tears that stung her eyes.

"Why not?! Damn it, Ziva! I thought you were dead! Do you realize how amazed I am to see you here?! And now you tell me that you don't want anything to do with me?! Ziva! This is torture!"

"You think that you are being tortured?! Try being me! I watched a man that I loved killed right in front of me! He was shot...by a terrorist, Tony! A fucking _terrorist_! You don't even know torture!"

"You think I don't know how you feel?! You really think I don't get it!?" he shouted, the veins in his neck straining, "Ziva, I thought you were _dead! _You were the only reason I had to wake up in the morning and you were gone like that!" he snapped his fingers, "You never wrote, you never called. Damn it, Ziva, I was worried out of my fucking mind! You think that _I _don't know?! Well, you're wrong, because you don't know _shit_ about what I've gone through since you left!"

She prepared to yell again, but she froze.

"I'm sorry about your boyfriend, Ziva, but maybe that was how it was supposed to end," he consoled her.

She was breathing deeply and staring off into space, "I know it was," she said, her voice cold and distant.

He gave her an odd look.

"You know I love you, right?" he asked, tugging on her shirt sleeve.

She looked up at him and nodded, "Right."

"If I died today, I want to make sure that you know that I love you with all of my heart," he tried to take her hands, but she held them away.

"Tony...do not say things like that," she said, looking pained.

"It could happen, Ziva. You never know when your time's gonna come. That's something I've learned over these past few months. Never take anything for granted; especially not time."

"Let's take a walk, Tony," Ziva offered. Laying some money down on the table.

_There is so much beauty and life and art and history in the city [Paris] that to be there feels like being in love even if you are not. But there are many cities with art and beauty and history. Why, then, is Rome or Istanbul or Moscow or Williamsburg not Love's city?_

Ziva led Tony to a park in front of her apartment building and they began to walk through it.

"So this is where it happened, huh?" Tony said looking around.

"What?" Ziva asked, confused.

"This is where Gibbs fell for Jenny," Tony explained.

"I think that it had been building up for quite some time," Ziva commented.

"Sounds familiar," he muttered.

"Paris was just the culmination of all the tension," she continued.

"It could be that way again," he stated, stopping.

She turned to look at him, "Jenny is dead, Tony."

"No, not for them...for us. You can't deny that there's tension, Ziva. There's been tension since you walked into the squadroom to stop us from killing Ari! I know it; you know it; all of NCIS knows it; now, thanks to that little show, a bunch of people in some Parisian café know it! I've come to terms with it, Ziva; now its your turn. Please, please, just tell me something," Tony begged, stepping close to her.

She closed her eyes and looked down before looking back up into his hazel eyes, "You do not know how much it hurts me to say it, but...I love you."

A smile shot across Tony's face and he picked her up and spun her around. When he sat her back down, he kissed her with all the passion and tension that had built up over the years. After a moment, she gave up and put her emotions into the kiss as well. It was only when they felt their lungs sting from oxygen deprivation that they broke the kiss.

He held her tightly to himself and rested his forehead on hers and whispered, "I love you."

She ran her hands over his chest and echoed his words back to him.

_Love at first sight is not rare, in fact it is extremely common, it happens to some people a few times a year. The feeling of "what if" when meeting the eyes of a stranger can be love unrecognized._

_Social and safety concerns impose rules on human behavior that restrict people from listening to their instincts but George and Claudette lived very close to death and they heard themselves more acutely than the civilized and safe. They heard nature the way and antelope does in the presence of a lion._

_Also, the chemical and genetic structure imprinted on George and Claudette was so compatible that the Universe threw them at each other with all its might. Offspring of such a match would be extremely useful._

_Love at first sight for George and Claudette was not romantic and whimsical. It was inevitable. The Universe wanted it. And the Universe always gets what it wants. It is, after all, very, very big._

* * *

**A.N.: **So, whaddiya think? This is the last chapter I post before I leave for my mission trip to Nebraska...gosh...that's gonna be interesting...oh, well. Too late to chicken out now!

Hope you like this chapter. When I get back from Nebraska, I expect my inbox to be full of reviews. (I'm sure it won't be, but I can hope, right?)


	10. The Road to God Part Three

**DISCLAIMER: **I obviously do not own NCIS or anything similar to that...except, you know, the DVDs and that kind of stuff...but none of that producer-y stuff.

* * *

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **I know I've been gone for a while. I also know that this is a very short chapter with none of the NCIS people in it...give me a break, I've got writer's block. Be happy! Be happy! (That would make more sense if you had watched TekkonKinkreet...)

* * *

_**Three Years Ago**_

_The power and the theater and the thrill of the Church called to Saul like polyester to an Osmond. _

_He could not resist it._

From the day that they arrived in Joshua, Ethan and Kenneth began to help the Reverend and his wife. The more work they did, the more that Kenneth felt like they were doing something wrong. However, he also seemed to notice something about the Reverend's wife.

Flora would do anything the Reverend Peterson asked, but she always seemed to be so depressed. She never had a smile on her face. Kenneth thought she was beautiful and could not imagine why such a wonderful person could be so depressed at all times.

Slowly, she began to change. At first it was just a small change; her eyes would sparkle a little when she talked to Kenneth. Gradually, the changes became bigger and more obvious. Flora would spend more and more time with Kenneth. She would whisper things in his ear and smile and laugh.

Completely oblivious to all of this, the Reverend schooled Ethan in the business end of running a church. Of course, it was not like he was telling him 'and this is how you take their money'; it was never in so many words. It was the little things that the Reverend could do to fill up the collection plates each and every Sunday.

"_Jesus is here. Right now. Welcome...welcome Jesus!"_

_Everybody welcomed Jesus. They yelled and waved and wept and rattled their walkers. Saul thought if the Holy Carpenter of Nazareth had walked in on this bunch of wailing nutjobs, he would have been terrified, but he kept his thoughts to himself and welcomed Jesus along with everyone else._

It was a show. Everything about the church was a show. There were no tickets, but the people; who showed up like moths to a flame; emptied their pockets each and every Sunday morning for something as simple as jumping up and down behind a pulpit or shouting out that Jesus was sitting there on the front pew. Can't you see him? Can't you see Jesus right there? No one ever could see Jesus on the front pew, but they would be damned; literally; if they told the Reverend that. So everyone just sat there and shouted out "Amen!" and "Hallelujah!" as if there were a tangible human being on the front pew.

It was there in that church that Ethan looked over and saw the looks that Flora was giving his brother and realized that Kenneth was screwing the Reverend's wife.

It was there in that church that Ethan realized that his brother's charm and good-looks could easily get them the money to make it to Washington.

It was there in that church that Ethan realized that he had total control over Kenneth.

It was there in that church that Ethan realized that he could take Kenneth a lot farther than Washington.

It was there in that church that Ethan questioned, 'Who needs a father when you're swimming in cash?'.

It was there in that church that Ethan lost sight of his goal.


End file.
